


Heavier Than Our Egos

by withcoffeespoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Gender Issues, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misgendering, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Venatori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Cullen thinks he's getting somewhere with Dorian, the Inquisitor receives a letter from Halward Pavus that pulls reality out from under Dorian's feet and may lead them all into a Venatori trap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavier Than Our Egos

“On your left!” Dorian called.

Cullen reacted instinctively, tilting his shield, absorbing the blow from his opponent. Rylen’s strike hit hard; were it not for Dorian’s warning, Cullen might have made a necessary detour to the infirmary. Panting, he nodded to the other soldier and they broke, each seeking out a water skin.

Dorian lounged against the wall, hip jut out casually. He had a remarkable way of making his insouciance look natural.

Cullen felt suddenly self-conscious of the sweat dripping down his face.

“It’s nice to find a decent opponent for once, Commander,” Rylen said, thumping Cullen in the shoulder with his shield. Cullen his his pained grimace with a grin, recognizing the compliment from the surly man. Cullen understood fluently the language of sullen practicality that served as Rylen’s mother tongue. He did not hand out blithe praise without cause.

“As your commander, I order you to a bath immediately,” Cullen said, humor in his eyes, despite his stern tone.

“You’re no rose yourself, Commander,” Rylen complained good-naturedly. “But it’s not a bad idea.”

As soon as Rylen was out of earshot, Dorian muttered, conspiratorially, “Do you think it would be well-received if I went after him, Commander? Perhaps the thrill of a challenging opponent isn’t the only relief the Knight-Captain needs.” There was a lecherous pitch to his voice, his joking less out of genuine interest and more to incite a reaction from Cullen.

Cullen hummed, revealing nothing. Instead, he made a show of gazing after Rylen, himself. The act wasn’t entirely for show. Rylen was a very attractive man, and Cullen knew his strengths better than most. After Cullen left Kirkwall, he had fought alongside Rylen to secure what they could for the Inquisition.

But their intimacy was that of a soldier’s. He had seen Rylen in the throes of fever, and Rylen had witnessed him suffering under his first struggle with lyrium withdrawal. They had both spent days in a tiny tent with none but the other for company. Their bond bore the mark of brotherhood, and while his own attraction may have sparked briefly at their first meeting in Kirkwall, it hadn’t taken long for the familiarity to snuff it out.

“He might, were you a woman,” Cullen lamented. “Rylen has been remarkably tense lately. Regrettably, he is interested in broad hips, not broad shoulders.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, his face flushing, as though he’d been found out.

“Come now, Dorian,” Cullen said. “You can’t have thought you were the only man who noticed other men.” He made for the steps, his muscles aching pleasantly from sparring. Perhaps Rylen was right; a bath was not a terrible idea.

Something in Dorian’s shoulders relaxed as he followed. He swallowed hard before speaking. “I would not have expected you,” he said with forced casualness.

Cullen laughed. “We can’t all be like you.”

“What do you mean by that?” His words were defensive, but his tone masked it in flippancy. “Not to say that I am not a remarkable specimen—handsome, intelligent, superbly talented…”

“Do you mean to suggest that I am not?”

“We all have our strengths,” Dorian dismissed.

“Yes, I see,” Cullen said, pretending to consider the man’s words as they walked in step. “So you find me not at all attractive, dull as a brick, and utterly without merit.”

Dorian gaped, stopping dead. Cullen had to keep the smug grin from his face. “Maker’s breath, you’re _joking_. Wait, no, you’re— _are you flirting_?”

Cullen, a few strides ahead, turned on his heel to face Dorian. “I suppose I am,” he said, somewhat surprised, himself. Cullen had been aware for some time that he found the mage attractive; how could he not? But never had he considered acting on his idle fantasies. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Dorian swore, the words unfamiliar. Tevene, Cullen concluded. “He asks if _I’m_ uncomfortable,” Dorian said to no one. He closed the space between the two of them, slow enough to indicate that his action was not a rebuff. Cullen turned with him, walking side by side. Privately he acknowledged that this was a subject far more comfortable to discuss while on the move.

“Are you?” he asked again.

Dorian, after a moment’s hesitation, shook his head. “Far from it,” he said softly, though Cullen felt it was an incomplete truth. There were nerves in Dorian’s voice when he added, “Should you take after the Knight-Captain’s example, perhaps I could join you for that bath.”

Cullen couldn’t control the flush in his cheeks. For all his bluster, the enjoyment of having a step up on Dorian Pavus, who couldn’t cheat at this, Cullen found himself squirming under the assault of his frank sexuality. “Perhaps, ah, another time.” He cringed at the words, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Dorian laughed, understanding. It was not an unkind sound, but startled, charmed. “I may hold you to that.”

 

* * *

 

When Dorian had studied under Alexius, he’d been groomed into a wine connoisseur. Whenever they found themselves stuck on a problem, Alexius would pop open a bottle, and the drink would loosen their minds and tongues enough that, more often than not, a solution would fall out eventually.

It was a habit hard to break.

Dorian turned to the tavern after the news of Felix’s death broke. There was no solution to this; Dorian knew that. Still, he thought there might be something to the lure of cheaply-imported Tevinter wine. If not a solution, he could still chase the escape of drunkenness.

He had only begun his third glass when Commander Cullen walked in. A wake followed the man, people shuffling out of his way as he made for the bar. Dorian stared at the scene in quiet bemusement.

The Commander was so rarely seen in the Tavern, and without the company of the Inquisitor, he looked completely out of place. Dorian bit back a half-hearted smile at the sour flutter of butterflies in his chest when Cullen chose the stool beside Dorian. All he had to do was smile at Cabot, and the bartender was drawing up a mug of ale.

“Don’t tell me you moonlight as a barfly,” Dorian remarked.

Cullen shook his head. “To the disappointment of none, least of all my troops.” He sighed. “Cabot normally has a mug delivered up to me in my office. Imagine the effect it would have on morale for them to see their commanding officer drowning his sorrows.”

“Is that why you’re here tonight?” Dorian asked. “To drown your sorrows?”

“Not tonight.” Cullen offered no more.

Dorian shrugged and drained his wineglass.

“You, though.”

The glass smacked the bar in Dorian’s misjudgment of the distance. “Me, though.”

Where most men would chug and gulp, Cullen sipped delicately, nursing his ale even as Dorian poured another glass, this one unsteady as emotion and alcohol swirled in his veins.

“There isn’t much left to love about Tevinter,” he said. “It’s like an old lover, disappointing you over and over again.”

“You make it sound like you have experience in that area.”

Dorian hummed, a sound that neither confirmed nor denied, but could only be one of the two.

“What about you and Felix?”

Dorian recoiled, suddenly prickly. “What about _me and Felix_? Commander, pray tell me, would you take kindly to someone assuming that any friendship in your history was burdened by romantic entanglements?”

Cullen winced. “I’m sorry. You...seemed close, that’s all.”

“We were,” Dorian admitted. “Felix was one of…” He broke off to laugh, a quiet bitter thing, “Felix was the _only_ person who knew who I truly was. Who never questioned it, or challenged me. Felix accepted me at face value. There are few in Tevinter who would.” He drank from his glass. “Now there are even fewer.”

“I know,” Cullen said gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Dorian asked, barely audible.

“Yes,” Cullen snapped. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me, but—”

“You made your opinions on the Inquisitor’s involvement with the mages very clear in the War Room.”

Cullen hesitated. “I have...reservations in regard to the rebels, yes.”

“And what of a Tevinter?”

“Your countrymen do not define you, Dorian. It is a mistake I may have once made,” he admitted, “but I am not that man anymore.”

Dorian’s lips quirked into an ironic, twisted thing. “You believe so strongly in redemption?” He wasn’t sure, himself, if he was talking about the mages or about Cullen. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

“I need to,” Cullen said, quiet, desperate.

Perhaps, to Cullen at least, it did matter.

Dorian wanted urgently to kiss him.

_Not here_ , urged the voice of familiar habits, the reminder of everything wrong with him, of shame and deceit and betrayal and—

“Come with me,” Dorian demanded.

Cullen didn’t hesitate. Dorian tried not to read too much into it. They made it no further than the training grounds behind the tavern before Dorian pressed Cullen into the darkness. His eyes flashed with something that might have been fear if it weren’t for the fog of ale.

“You are a man of your word,” Dorian said. Cullen nodded, unnecessarily. “So am I. Say the word and I will never speak of this again.” The words came practiced, a speech he had given many times before. A wine-soaked promise.

“Dorian,” Cullen warned, “do not mistake me for an anonymous backalley paramour on the streets of Minrathous. I know what you are doing, and you will _not_ frighten me away.” At his word, he flipped their position, the hard stone of the castle walls at Dorian’s back.

It was Cullen who pressed in tight and urged their lips to meet, hard and wanting. Dorian pressed his hands between their bodies, palms flat on Cullen’s chest, keeping the slightest distance between them, even as he gripped the man’s tunic tightly in his fingers. Cullen may have slid into the role of the aggressor but Dorian was in control.

Cullen tasted like cheap beer, addictive and earthy. He made soft noises into Dorian’s mouth, like he couldn’t get enough, like the press of their bodies in the verge was insufficient. His ardor tugged low in Dorian’s gut, a hot swell of arousal rising until it reached his lips, every pinch of teeth, every swipe of Cullen’s tongue lifting him higher.

Dorian pulled away, overwhelmed in a way he hadn’t felt for quite some time. Breathless and flushed, Cullen was even more gorgeous.

“The Inquisition’s secret weapon,” Dorian mused, staring at Cullen’s mouth, the gape of his parted lips. He slid one hand up to cup Cullen’s jaw, his thumb brushing against his mouth. His lips were hot and soft and wet and Dorian wanted more. “Best keep you locked away.”

Cullen ducked his head, one hand moving gingerly to the back of his neck. “I got...carried away. _Andraste_ , if I have overstepped—”

“Heavens, no,” Dorian said, perhaps too quickly. “I only meant to say—this was not the response I had dreamt of.”

“Good dreams?”

Dorian shook his head. “Better reality.”

Cullen’s eyes were unfocused, his breath coming in slow, desirous pants. He shifted half a step back with a sly, ginger smile, and Dorian itched to pull him back in.

“You never did say why you came out to the tavern tonight,” Dorian said quietly.

“I suppose I didn’t.”

“Call it a curiosity.”

Cullen smiled, his lips pulling on the scar above his mouth. Dorian wanted nothing more than to lean in and pull it between his teeth. “I came for you.”

There were no words for the thrill of gratitude washing over him, Cullen so confident, so sure in himself. Dorian didn’t need words. He pressed in hard, taking Cullen’s lips in a fierce kiss that tasted of each other.

 

* * *

 

After their first kiss—their first dozen, perhaps, in a more accurate count by the time they had parted—Dorian came to Cullen in stolen moments. A kiss behind the tavern, necking in the library stacks, one memorable whispered promise on his way to see the Inquisitor after a chess match, which had Cullen ducking into a washroom to see to himself.

It had been so long since Cullen had felt such constant, thrumming desire. He flushed at the memory—being young and eager and _oh so taken_ with that young mage woman in the tower, the simultaneous thrill and shame with which he regarded his feelings for one of his charges.

He’d been youthful and ignorant in the best way, and it had been Farris, his bunkmate, who had reaped the benefits of his foolish urges. What they’d had might not have been the stuff of romance, but it had been right—for a time.

His memories of this time were never pleasant, plagued with violent visions, the blood, the horror of watching them all die. He never could know if it had all been real, or a parlor trick solely for the demon’s benefit.

He remembered, then, why he had held back for so long.

He had borne witness to the brutal sexuality of his comrades, the abuses, the liberties they took over others. He didn’t know what he hated more: the knowledge that the desires of his comrades flew in the face of lyrium quieting the body’s urges, or his own silent complicity.

He had sworn to be better.

This was different, though. He was no more a Templar anymore than Dorian was a submissive, frightened mage. He had been so careful to let Dorian come to him, to let this be on his terms, and not Cullen’s. But Cullen was still the Inquisition’s commander, and even though Dorian didn’t serve under him, the thought of any abuse of power was abhorrent.

How hard was he trying to convince himself?

Cullen was in his office when Dorian sauntered in, loose-jointed and sharp-eyed. He was gorgeous, and Cullen made no secret of his appreciation.

“ _Hard_ at work?” Dorian asked, the double entendre overt, thinly veiled.

“Were you just _waiting_ to use that line?”

“Only a little,” Dorian admitted. “I suspected it was only a matter of time. Considering the growing intensity of our liaisons over the last week, probability was on my side.”

“I see,” Cullen said. “So you’ve come to do no more than tease me?”

Dorian’s laugh sounded more like a punch to the gut, a soft gasping start that danced over Cullen’s skin. “I can do a _lot_ more than tease,” he promised.

Cullen hesitated only for a moment, his sense of honor, of propriety holding him back from what he desired—from _who_ he desired. He had denied himself for far too long. “The ladder. Up, please,” he said, hoping Dorian might ignore how breathless he sounded.

The mage’s grin told him that he had no such luck.

They tumbled onto Cullen’s bed like two sloppy teenagers, Dorian holding himself just a fraction above Cullen’s body. “I thought you said you were interested in more than teasing,” Cullen said, reaching for the other man. Dorian stole Cullen’s wrists in his own fine fingers and drew him up into a kiss.

Dorian was an incredibly talented at driving Cullen to distraction—until the only thing that seemed to exist was Dorian’s mouth. His hands forgot what they had set out to do, instead winding in that complex mage’s armor of his, all Tevinter belts and buckles.

It was Dorian’s hands that gained ground, stripping Cullen of his cape, his leathers, his tunic. They both sighed when his palms found skin, Dorian’s hands everywhere at once. He leaned into Cullen, his mouth dragging down to the broad muscles of his chest.

Every inch of Cullen flushed with heat. It had been long enough that even this was enough to bring him to the point of desperation, his breath coming in pants as a glistening of sweat grew on his skin—and Dorian hadn’t touched him yet.

“Is this amenable?” Dorian asked Cullen’s navel, his tongue tracing its shape. The suggestion was obscene, and Cullen couldn’t look away.

“Dorian,” he sighed. “I’m—that is, it’s been—I won’t—”

“If you mean to say you’ll set no records for stamina, I’ll take no offense—on the contrary,” he panted, tilting his head into Cullen’s hip.

Cullen groaned, his head falling back. Dorian tugged away his smallclothes with his trousers, and the flash of chilled air, a mockery of a breath, drew a twitch from Cullen’s erection.

“Oh,” Dorian breathed, an odd bare moment. “Yes,” he whispered before pressing his mouth to Cullen, no more than teasing licks, but Cullen had denied himself for long enough—too long. His body arched with a will of its own, pressing into Dorian’s touches.

When he finally took Cullen into his mouth, he was met with a shudder that ran through Cullen’s entire body. Dorian’s mouth was hot and forgiving, and he sucked beautifully. The anticipation of this moment fell all at once from Cullen’s lips in a drawn moan. Dorian took everything there was to take, and pawed at Cullen’s skin like he could draw the pleasure out of him.

“Dorian…” Cullen sighed, wanting to thrust up, to grip the other man’s perfect hair, to grasp for more than the overwhelming sensation of his mouth around him.

Dorian hummed, as though in response, but his mouth never pulled away, his breaths coming in loud hisses through his nose as he moved faster, his shoulders shifting as his body moved in response to Cullen’s, as he writhed in his own arousal.

“Can I—I want to—” Cullen made a stilted gesture toward Dorian, his fingers grasping at the air. He wanted to touch, to feel more than would-be anonymous hands and lips on him, to know truly that this was _Dorian_ over him.

He’d had fantasies since he had truly made the effort to get to know the other man. There had been no denying he was every bit as beautiful as he boasted. Since their stolen kisses and eager groping, those fantasies had only intensified, but for all of his imaginings, he never expected to be _here_ , on the verge of orgasm with Dorian’s lips sealed tight around the head of his cock, his tongue doing incessant, torturous things that stole Cullen’s breath.

He wanted to know this was not just another fantasy haunting his dreams alongside his nightmares.

Then Dorian leaned in, pressing Cullen’s thighs wider, fingernails dragging up his muscles, turning back before the sensation could tickle. His touch left a bite that left him shivering and pulled him closer to the edge.

He couldn’t hold himself back if he wanted to. He reached for Dorian’s bobbing head, holding him steady as Cullen rolled his hips in desperate throes as he chased his orgasm down Dorian’s throat. He loosened his grip as he came down, turning the fervid grasping into a caress, fingers tracing the shape of Dorian’s smooth jaw as he pulled off, his breath gasping and rough.

Cullen swore, hissing an apology before he bent to press his forehead to Dorian’s, his hand migrating to the soft fuzz of hair at the back of his head. “Let me—” he said, reaching for Dorian’s robes.

Dorian reached for Cullen’s hands, tangling their fingers together. “It’s fine,” he panted. “I already—”

It took him a moment to realize what Dorian meant, that he had—oh, _Maker_. Just from sucking him off. He felt a spike of desire and dragged Dorian level with him as he fell back against the mattress, and drew him into a deep kiss, eager at the taste of his own bitterness on Dorian’s tongue. If he were capable, he might have chased the reawakening of his arousal, but the ache in his hip was enough to remind him of his limitations.

Dorian seemed out of his mind, hips still chasing his orgasm, desperate and shuddering. It was the single-most arousing thing Cullen had witnessed in his life.

“I should go,” Dorian whispered against Cullen’s lips, though everything about him said the opposite.

The question, _Why_ , stuck in Cullen’s throat. “Stay,” Cullen asked instead, a question at its heart, asking not only for Dorian’s presence, but also for an explanation—for trust and for things he knew Dorian might be unwilling to give.

Dorian seemed torn, his eyes far away, even as they raked down Cullen’s chest, to the pool of cooling semen that settled on his stomach. “I can’t,” he said finally.

The words acted like a vice on Cullen’s throat, blocking the question still fighting to get out.

Dorian’s mouth twisted in a haughty bite of cold laughter. “What did you think this was, Cullen? This isn’t the sort of thing where one stays the night.”

Cullen was a coward; he refused to challenge Dorian, to summon his words and fight. How could it be, after all the flirtation, all the respect that had grown between them, that Dorian had only ever seen this as a convenience, an easy outlet for his desires?

He wouldn’t even afford him the respect of looking him in the eye as he said it.

“Thank you—for tonight,” Dorian said. “Perhaps...it would be best if it were one we avoid repeating.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, his voice cracking. “Perhaps it would.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian left Cullen’s quarters with a heavy lump in his throat and an ache in his chest that was all too familiar. Dorian had always wanted things he wasn’t allowed. He knew better by now than to ask for them.

Men like Dorian weren’t made for romance and wooing—better left for proper men who loved proper women. Men like Dorian, _deviants_ , knew only carnality and selfish desire, the fulfillment of the moment. Whatever Cullen thought he wanted from him, it was something Dorian couldn’t—wouldn’t give, and it was best he learned this sooner, rather than later.

He met no one on the walk to his quarters, the hour too late, and a wave of gratitude and regret washed over him, his mood too mean, too brittle. Reaching the door to his room felt like breaking the surface of the water for a greatly-denied gasp of air.

Dorian knew that all he would ever have to offer was a one-sided, semi-anonymous tryst, and he would always be left in another’s debt—whether one of the body, or the silent slip of gold into a palm for the promise of sealed lips. He moaned at the ache between his legs that throbbed at the memory of Cullen’s body, the pressure of his hands, the offer that nearly froze him into desperate acquiescence— _yes, yes, please_.

His clothes fell to the floor, and he slipped between the sheets, drawn, by temptation, to reach for himself, to finish what he and Cullen had started properly. He’d touched himself through the shame so many times before; what was one more?

But this was _Cullen_ , a memory unworthy of such despoiling. Dorian couldn’t.

It was worth remembering that he knew nothing more than what he had been given. Men like Dorian were capable of terrible, deceitful things, and it would be foolish to want anything good from them.

From him.

 

* * *

 

“Report,” Cullen said, fighting to keep his voice level.

Mirri stood at attention, looking as though protocol was the only thing keeping her up. “The Venatori struck Griffon Wing Keep in the night. It was like...I’m sorry, Ser. We should have been prepared.”

“Do not blame yourself. The Keep was not a military priority. Our defenses were focused elsewhere, and the Venatori knew that.”

“We held the Keep, but...it cost us.” She looked down, unable to hold Cullen’s gaze. “Casualty report, ser,” Mirri said, handing him the list.

Cullen had been a soldier for most of his life. He knew loss came with the territory, no more so than in times of war. But it was always the hardest part of his role as Commander to accept the names of the dead. Harder still, when they were headed by the names of friends.

“Knight-Captain Rylen,” Cullen read tonelessly. “Shit.”

Cullen’s hands shook with some unnamed emotion. It was one thing to order his men into battle, and another to accept the blame when they didn’t return. It was part of being a leader, a commander. _He’d done this before_.

This was not the first time he had ordered young men and women to their deaths. It wasn’t the first time he had ordered his friends to their deaths.

It didn’t make it any easier.

“Ser?”

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cullen felt completely numb, and he was grateful; what he felt building inside him was something fiercer than he could handle. Despair and anger, all reflected back at himself.

He had spent years numbing himself with lyrium, letting it dull his hatred, his pain. It was only once he let himself truly feel all the anger and fear that had filled him up for years that he could allow himself to move past it.

The draw of his philter was immense, now. With unsteady hands, he drew the kit from the drawer. It wasn’t even hidden, buried; it should have felt more like shame when he lifted the lid.

He whipped it across the room with a bark of anger, the wood snapping against stone. He wished he could do it again, and again—and once more to be sure. It felt good; he wished it felt half as good as the flood of lyrium singing its promises in his veins, and once more, temptation tasted sweeter than pain.

Sweet Maker, what sort of leader could he possibly be like this? He’d already warned Cassandra of the signs, pleaded with her to take his place. It wasn’t enough.

It didn’t assuage the constant nagging thought that _this wasn’t where he was meant to be_. Perhaps once, he had been a devout believer, willing to stand guard and protect his charges, but a long time had passed since that man stood in his place. He was a commander by chance, but in his heart, Cullen was a warrior.

If only he had been there. Things could have been different, lives could have been saved. _Rylen_ …

His hand clenched into a tight fist as the thought ran over and over in his mind.

He knew, in that moment, what he had to do. It was no less than his men deserved in death.

 

* * *

 

The missive addressed to the Inquisitor was genuine, the Pavus family crest intact, even as the wax had torn the parchment where it had been peeled open. The seal still made a sticking noise when Dorian’s thumb wedged stiffly under it, pulling it apart. Cullen shot the Inquisitor a look, a question in silence. Adaar returned it with a gentle shake of his head.

“I thought you might be able to answer some questions for us, Dorian.”

Dorian’s hands shook.

“Yes, of course,” he said, all posturing, nothing intentionally betraying his nerves; his unsteady breathing and trembling hands did that well enough for him.

 

> _Inquisitor,_
> 
> _Bearing an otherwise shameful admission, I, Magister Halward Pavus, call for the safe return of my daughter. I regret that to address her directly would only bestir in her the same willful nature that led her to your Inquisition’s door. Her deviant thoughts would turn her against us as though we were enemies, not family._
> 
> _I wish to arrange a meeting, just myself and my daughter. If you would guarantee this, I would truly be in your debt._
> 
> _My family is precious to me, Inquisitor. I would happily discuss payment, should you ensure her safe return._
> 
> _Graciously yours,_
> 
> _Magister Halward of House Pavus_

All the warmth had drained from Dorian’s skin. It was amazing how quickly his father’s opinion managed to sink everything he’d worked for up until that moment. _Deviant_ , he called him. Dorian almost laughed. As if his own desires were more abhorrent than the lengths his father would go to correct him.

And he called _Dorian_ selfish.

Selfish was his father, grasping so hard at his own fabricated reality that he would yank away all that Dorian had worked for, all that he had accomplished with the Inquisition.

“I wasn’t aware you had a sister,” Adaar said, and it all came crashing down.

If he had been asked a day before, an hour before, Dorian would have argued that it was not possible to feel everything at once, to feel such complete confliction within himself that he couldn’t find it in him to put on a face, to charm the Inquisitor with some convenient lie.

Everything was crumbling around him, and the mortification of it all, the sudden tilt of reality beneath his feet, was at war with Dorian’s pure, molten rage that his father would force the issue.

He stammered out, “I...I don’t.”

“This is your father?” Adaar asked. “I mean, there isn’t another Magister Halward Pavus?”

Dorian couldn’t control his own breathing. “No,” he choked; the sound was almost a laugh. “There isn’t. This is—this is from my father,” he confirmed.

“Then who—?”

He could make light of it. Surely there was some jest he could invoke, some misdirection. He’d done it enough in the past.

Perhaps that was the issue.

“Surely you can put it together, Inquisitor. That is why you, of all people, are the Inquisitor, isn’t it? The Herald of Andraste?” He laughed, the sound strangled and hysterical. “ _I’m_ —” The words were wretched and bland, and not enough.

“Let me tell you all a story:

“Magister Halward and Lady Aquinea Thalrassian gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was healthy and intelligent and best yet, a mage. She would be nurtured to perfection as the family heir, entered into a highly regarded betrothal, and if everyone was lucky, might even birth the next Archon. Every parent’s dream.

“Well, that is, until she was found drunk, surrounded by debauchery and ruin, dressed in the clothing of her betrothed—oh, the insult, the _scandal_ —and by another magister, too, who would, of course, bring her back onto the straight and narrow by _any means necessary_. Of course her betrothed wouldn’t have any of that.

“She’d clearly set out to ruin any reputation Magister Halward had set into play for the two of them. So she resorts to—oh, what _must_ be _tricking_ deviant men into sleeping with her in this _disguise_ and Maker forbid _they_ touch _her_ , or she will have to pay them for their silence. _Good thing she can afford it_.

“Until one day, this vulgar creature, chest bound and dressed in the robes of a man, was captured in the company of another man, her betrothal long forgotten, and turned over to Lord Halward.

“The Magister—” his voice broke, but Dorian was determined to get through it. “...says unforgivable things to the child he sired, while Lady Aquinea remains silent. And after long months as the Magister’s _captive_ , this child escapes after her mentor and travels south. She calls herself Dorian of House Pavus...and prays never to tell a word of this story to anyone.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s heart was in his throat; it was the only explanation he had for the breath that would not come.

Dorian’s face was pushed into self-loathing, shaped all wrong. He looked like he was about to be sick. Cullen considered that _he_ might be about to be sick.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Dorian said, his voice hissing and choked.

“Dorian,” Cullen called softly. Dorian either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care to stop. Cullen moved to follow him, only to be stayed by the cool touch of Leliana’s hand on his.

“He’s not ready,” she said.

Cullen shook his head. “I know,” he said, “but someone has to make sure he’s—” He shook her off, chasing after the mage.

He called after Dorian again, stopping him before he exited Josephine’s office into the main hall.

Dorian’s hand flexed momentarily into a fist before relaxing back into what Cullen tried not to see as a surrender. “Yes, Commander?” Dorian called stiffly.

“I wanted to see if—are you all right?”

Dorian laughed. It was a sad creature of a sound. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose this isn’t the sort of thing you could be asked to forget. All of you, but especially…”

_Especially you_ , Cullen easily finished for him. “Is—is this why—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dorian forced out. “Don’t you dare ask me that.”

Cullen reached out for him, acting without thought, his grip gentle but firm. “Dorian, I really think we ought to talk about thi—”

Dorian ripped his arm from Cullen’s grasp. “What business is it of yours?” he spat. “There is nothing to discuss.”

“Dorian—”

“I said no, Cullen,” he said, spinning on him. “Perhaps you’re used to your southern mages rolling over for you, but I am not so frightened of you, Commander.”

Cullen flinched at Dorian’s use of his title. He saw it for what it was: Dorian’s attempt to wedge some distance between them. It worked.

“Hit a little too close for home?” Dorian sneered. “Shall I ask you to describe her? She must have been very pretty to catch your eye.” Dorian’s words were carved with acid. “We all have a few skeletons in the closet, don’t we, Commander? Things we’d prefer _stayed there_?” Dorian’s words were chosen with pinpoint precision, striking Cullen in his own hypocrisy.

“My past is something I have worked very hard to leave behind me,” Cullen admitted, his voice broken.

A breath passed between them.

“So is mine,” Dorian said, biting, his expression hardened. “At last it seems we have common ground.”

Cullen couldn’t find his voice.

Dorian turned, and paused only when his hand gripped the handle on the door. “Tell me, does it make it easier?” His voice wavered, suddenly weak. He turned slightly, enough that Cullen could see his face at a slant. There was a youthfulness about him that Cullen had never noticed before, a softness that appeared only when Dorian allowed, his vulnerability raw, but buried deep. “Knowing that I’m—” He broke off sharply, as though he could gnash the words between his teeth and pull the reality from existence.

Cullen paced one step back, then forward again. Did it make it easier? No. It didn’t change _anything_ , Cullen thought. Not least of all how he felt for the mage.

Dorian’s question weighed over their heads, heavy and burdensome. Dorian didn’t need to hear that; any dismissal, Dorian wouldn’t believe, and anything else would damn him.

“I don’t know what you want to hear from me, Dorian.”

Dorian flinched. It took him a second to recover, but Cullen watched devastation cross his face before he managed to school it into his Nobility Neutral look, blank and false and everything Cullen hated painted on one for whom he felt anything but.

“I can’t imagine we have much more to say to one another, then,” Dorian said, brittle.

The knowledge fell on Cullen with a sense of defeat, that he had tremendously misstepped.

 

* * *

 

“You look like you could use a friend, Tevinter,” Krem said, settling next to Dorian. “Maybe I could offer some advice.” The tavern hummed quietly, everyone absorbed in their own little stories, in their own little lives.

“And just what advice could you have for me? We’re nothing alike, Altus and Soporati, mage and warrior.”

“Man and man?” Krem challenged. “Nah, I don’t believe any of that Tevinter rubbish. Anyway, we have got one thing in common,” Krem said with a sly, downward glance.

Dorian mimicked the motion before it sank in. He felt the red hot indignant rage that came from being _known_ , like a betrayal. As though Krem had driven himself beneath Dorian’s skin, into his bones, splintered inside him.

“Who told you?” he asked darkly

“Inquisitor Adaar thought it might not hurt—to talk to someone who knows what it’s like.”

“And that’s all there is, now?” Dorian gritted.

“No,” Krem said, simply. “This isn’t something you take off at the end of the day, Tevinter, it’s who you _are_.”

A fire blazed in Dorian’s cheeks, caught somewhere between embarrassment and anger. “I rather preferred when no one knew _who I was_ ,” he said quietly.

“Can’t put that snake back in the hole.”

“Does your metaphor need to be quite so phallic?”

Krem shrugged. “It doesn’t get easier,” he admitted. “Talking about it. Telling people.”

“How do you do it?”

“Most people don’t question guys with mauls bigger than them.”

“A clear advantage, but we can’t all intimidate people with our biceps.”

“It’s not all intimidation tactics. No one else cares about this shit more than yourself.”

Dorian laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know my family.”

“I don’t,” Krem said. “But I do know they’re less family than the one that accepts you at face value.” He glanced over to the pile of Chargers hanging drunkenly off of one another, Dalish wrapped around the Iron Bull’s horns. A gentle smile formed on Krem’s lips. It made Dorian’s heart twist with some complicated warmth. _Envy_ , he thought.

Dorian took a gulp of his ale.

“You’re always welcome to have a drink with us,” Krem said with a gentle shove.

Dorian’s mouth stuttered into something close to a smile. It was shaped out of quiet gratitude and sheepish contemplation.

“You know what the real cruelty is, in all this?” Dorian said. Krem watched him, a question in his eyes, his attention fixed on Dorian. That sort of scrutiny was unnerving. It was tempting to twist his thoughts into a joke, to make some remark on fashion or his good looks. It would have worked for almost anyone else.

But maybe not Krem. Krem knew, better than anyone, what it was like to hide in plain sight.

“I watched the man I respected most literally tear apart the heavens for the barest chance to save his son. I have seen what damage love can do to a man.

“I might trade it all,” he said, barely above a whisper, even in the crowded tavern, “for a chance, a _hint_ , that my father is capable of such a feeling.” He drained his mug. “Even a fraction…”

Krem frowned, caught in the awkwardness of confession, where silence wasn’t enough, but any words would be too much. He finished the dregs of his beer.

“It would be so easy,” Dorian said, gazing out over the tavern, “if only I loved women, or perhaps were content to be one.”

There had been men who had pawed at his chest and growled in his ear, _now there’s a well-kept secret_. And men who spit on him and promised brutal deeds in payment for their seduction, men he’d barely made it away from alive and whole.

“No one cares who you are if you rise to power,” Dorian mused, “so long as you can back it up. But how dare one man desire another.”

Never mind loving one.

“I ever tell you how I met the Chief?” Krem asked, signalling the bartender for two more.

“No,” Dorian said, and with a fresh mug of ale each, Krem set the scene for him—the crowded bar, the crude thug of a tribune, the strange Qunari who stood between him and an impressive-sounding flail. He wondered how many liberties Krem took with the tale, but Dorian considered the size of the Iron Bull, the scarring he had seen surrounding the patch, and admitted to himself that truth was often stranger than fiction.

“Any regrets?” Dorian asked. “Leaving the army? Bull’s eye? Joining the Inquisition?”

Krem shook his head. “Not one,” he said with absolute solemnity. “You?”

Dorian stared at his ale. It tasted cheap, and like Cullen. He took a purposefully long draw from the mug before sliding it back to the bartender. Perhaps he’d had enough of that reminder. “I always wanted to grow a mustache,” he said with a tight smile.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Adaar offered with a tightness around his eyes, as though he held himself back from constantly glancing over his shoulder. A leader in battle forced to play the widow in waiting until Cullen brought the troops home.

Dorian put on a show of dragging his feet with mock resignation. “Far be it from me to deny the Inquisitor my company.” The title left a bad taste in Dorian’s mouth, even as Adaar ordered a beer for each of them. “I never did apologize for everything I said, did I?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“I am sorry.” He couldn’t meet Adaar’s eyes, focusing instead on the wood grain under his mug as it absorbed the slosh of beer. “It was unworthy of me.”

“Dorian, no. What your father wrote? _That_ is unworthy of you.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” Dorian asked. He’d avoided the question long enough. “I mean, tempting though it is to leave it all up in the air indefinitely…”

The Inquisitor shook his head. “Josephine assures me it would be a poor show if we simply ignored it.”

“Then what?”

“We go. Face the bastard.” Adaar’s fervor surprised Dorian.

“You should know my father is no hedgemage.”

“Then we go armed.”

“Even so—” Dorian sighed. “I hate to imagine my family mixed up in all this, but after Alexius…”

“You suspect Venatori?” The Inquisitor asked. “A trap?”

Dorian hummed. “Perhaps it is…” He paused. He’d never describe himself as an optimist, but even he had limitations of imagination. “It may be preferable to believing that what I saw, what I...experienced...was truly my father’s will.”

There was a question on the Inquisitor’s tongue that Dorian didn’t want to answer, not now. Not ever, if he could have his way, but Dorian Pavus had never been so lucky. “Dorian, what—” He was saved by the disruption of a harried scout bursting into the tavern. Her hands were covered in blood. She rushed to Inquisitor Adaar. “Ser!”

“What is it?”

“Emmons has fetched the healer, but you should come quickly. It’s Commander Cullen.”

Dorian felt the floor fall out from under him. Vivid visions sprung to Dorian’s mind—the Commander bloodied and bruised, bones broken, half-delirious with pain, under some hostile mage’s spell. The true ache was the knowledge that his own imagination could not conjure every possibility—and Dorian had always prided himself on his creativity.

He stood with the Inquisitor, but fell back, short of following him. There was nothing he could do, no point in seeing to the man’s bedside. “Go on,” Dorian said.

Adaar slapped him gently on the arm, a gesture of silent concern, and rushed off after the scout.

Dorian ordered another drink—a strong one. “Better make it a double.”

 

* * *

 

The pain wasn’t the worst of it.

If pressed, Cullen would admit that the crippling boredom was the true agony.

Even that wasn’t the whole truth. It was the lyrium.

He felt its song knitting itself in between the layers of his skin, grafted with the stitches that held his side together.

_One lucky jab_ , he thought bitterly. A Red Templar with more luck in his blade than in his armor was enough to turn Cullen into a raving addict scratching at the walls of his own mind.

The pain wasn’t the worst, but it made it worse. It clawed for relief the likes of which Cullen knew that one more high could deliver. Lyrium made him almost invincible. He could spend his whole life chasing that feeling. Because it never was just _one more high_. It was constant pursuit, one after the next, and Cullen had seen where that led time after time.

Three days of nothing but his thoughts was more than he could handle. Sweet Andraste, but he needed a distraction.

The surgeon tutted as he struggled into a sitting position. She reminded Cullen, at times, of his older sister. Both stern and compassionate, as likely to scold him as she was to bring him a cup of tea. It was a quality Cullen admired. It reminded him of home, and he found a great deal of comfort in it.

“Commander, I do wish you would listen when I tell you _not to move_.”

Cullen grunted, but masked his wince. He would not give her the pleasure of being right.

“And deny you the joy of telling him again? The words do seem to have an increasingly annoying quality to them,” Dorian observed.

The surgeon clucked her tongue. “I do have patients who could actually use the infirmary space. Serah Pavus, if you could get the Commander to his quarters, he may freely risk tearing his own stitches there in peace.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“Surely this isn’t—”

Dorian’s lips pressed so tightly that they nearly disappeared, the only visible sign of his frustration at their shared objection.

“On second thought,” Cullen admitted, “I would be able to get some work done if I could return to my office.”

“ _Anything_ ,” the surgeon snapped. “Just get him out of my hair.” She shook her head as she rushed out of the tent.

“You’ve been making friends,” Dorian observed. “I hope you remember this the next time you go out and nearly get killed.”

“It was never that bad,” Cullen protested.

Dorian made a soft, humming sound that may have been a contradiction, but Cullen wasn’t in the mood to argue.

His hands were beginning to shake.

“I’ve looked death in the face before,” he confessed. “That’s not what this was.”

Dorian shook his head and reached for Cullen, helping him to his feet. He wasn’t nearly as unsteady as the mage assumed, but he wasn’t going to shrug Dorian off.

He should, whispered a vindictive thought. He should reject Dorian the way the mage rejected him from his bed. For all his attempts at posturing, he was not immune to his own feelings, but he knew better than to believe that he could dole out justice. He was better off leaving that bitterness in the infirmary tents and on the battlefields. Fresh air was its own new perspective.

“I spoke to the Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “I’m coming with you—when you meet with your father.”

Dorian’s expression shuttered, his demeanor turning cold and impersonal even as he helped Cullen climb the steps to Skyhold’s battlements. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Commander.”

“Inquisitor Adaar expressed some concern about the role the Venatori play in this.” Cullen clutched his side as he reached the top of the battlements, breath pressing hard on the bruises over his ribs. It was entirely possible that he had been too hasty, returning to duty, but he would have found himself and the surgeon both insane before much longer. “Concern he said you shared.”

Dorian’s waited, his expression pinched, as Cullen struggled to catch his breath. Quietly, he said, “Honestly, I’m not so sure the Venatori are involved. My father is capable of terrible things all on his own.”

Cullen reached out, his hand touching Dorian’s lightly. “Then you need me there.”

Dorian pulled back, looking for anyone who might have seen. Cullen felt his heart sink with the desire to reassure him.

“Is this about me, or is this about a Templar desperate to prove he can still protect a mage?” Cullen said nothing. “What kind of man would I be if I put my own needs ahead of those of the Inquisition? Of its Commander?” Dorian asked quietly.

Whether it was rhetorical or not, Cullen answered, “I _want_ to be there.”

Dorian laughed, a bitterness in his eyes that hovered like a challenge. “Why, Commander?” He took a gasping breath, nervously desperate. “So you can witness my humiliation? So you can punish—”

“Dorian, I—”

“No, you let me finish,” he shouted, the words like a whip. It was one of few times Cullen had ever seen him lose control. It only took him a moment to regain, his voice quieter, but no less fierce. “If you mean to punish me with humiliation, then you have a long way to go. You wouldn’t be the first.” There was pain behind his eyes, though the mage would be ashamed to know that it showed.

“I have spent my life setting my duty ahead of my own desires. I won’t allow my efforts to change that to begin with some _imagined_ petty vendetta. This isn’t punishment, Dorian. I want to be there because I _care_ about you.”

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. Dorian froze, his body an opaque shell, his expression completely unreadable. “I’m sorry, Commander,” he said stiffly, “but whatever your feelings, _whoever_ you feel them for—that person doesn’t exist.” As soon as the words were out, he rushed past him, moving faster than he knew Cullen could manage if he had any intention to follow.

Cullen leaned against the stone, straining to determine if the ache in his ribs was from his injuries, or something deeper.

 

* * *

 

The road was wet and cold, and silence weighed heavily between them in long, awkward stretches. “I thought you said Venatori had been sighted through this area,” Dorian remarked the second night, huddled over their campfire. The ride had been easy, their pace unhurried. They had set out early in anticipation of meeting resistance on the road.

Dorian had scoffed at the setup, nothing befitting the Inquisition—their fire no more than a cooking fire, their beds no more than a few thin blankets on the cold, uneven ground. He had been admittedly spoiled, traveling with the Inquisitor. Without the resources provided for such company, Dorian’s excursions through Thedas offered little more comfort than his lonely wanderings as he had traveled south from Minrathous.

As the cold had settled in after sunset, however, Dorian had reconsidered his gratitude for their meager fire.

“You doubt Leliana’s scouts?”

“No,” he said, because he was no fool, “but I am highly suspicious.”

Cullen nodded in agreement. “True. I had anticipated greater opposition.” Close as he was to the heat of the fire, Cullen’s body still shook. He held his own hands, as though it would mask the tremors, but Dorian was more observant than he gave him credit for.

“It’s lyrium, isn’t it? _Kaffas_ , it is utterly barbaric what you southerners do to yourselves.”

Dorian found Cullen, for once, inclined to agree. “The symptoms are...tolerable.”

“For how much longer?” Dorian gritted. “I’d tell you the odds of surviving lyrium withdrawal after the sort of prolonged exposure you and your Templars have had, but you wouldn’t like it.”

“Thank you for that kindness,” Cullen said dryly. “I won’t let it become a liability,” he added, his tone frank.

Dorian averted his eyes, internally ashamed of his outburst. “That really wasn’t what I was getting at,” he said quietly. Perhaps it was putting too much on the line, his voice rasping with honesty.

Cullen stared at him for a long, speculative minute. Dorian refused to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. He knew he was playing with fire.

 

* * *

 

When he awoke, Cullen couldn’t remember where he was; he barely remembered who he was. All he knew was the gasping breaths that heaved his lungs, the fire in his chest, the thrumming rush of blood that urged him _on, on, on_.

There was a dagger in his hand and a body beneath him, hot and still. A dark throat worked anxiously just below the blade’s edge, a bead of blood whispering against silverite.

_Dorian_ , he realized. The name was enough to tip him over into the flood of memory, everything pulsing into reality before him.

“Maker have mercy,” Cullen gasped. Horrified, he wrenched back his arm, the blade landing halfheartedly in the grass in a corner of their shared tent. “Dorian, I’m so—I can’t believe I—”

“I’ve had ruder awakenings,” Dorian said, crawling back out from under Cullen’s prone form. He made the effort to pitch his voice lighthearted, but Cullen could sense the undercurrent of fear, shock, and something darker that Cullen couldn’t fathom.

“I knew...the nightmares are...I _never_ thought—”

“Please, Commander. If I had thought the situation truly dire, I would have used everything within my power to fend you off.” Cullen wondered how Dorian found it so easy to be flippant while wiping blood from his neck.

Blood Cullen put there.

“Why didn’t you?” Cullen spat. In this moment, he hated himself, his weaknesses on display, his shaken fragility another burden Dorian didn’t deserve. His eyes burned hot with shame.

“When a Templar has you pinned with a knife to your throat, magic is not one’s _first_ resort. I made the effort to wake you, and I was successful. Anything else is theoretical.”

“Damn it all,” Cullen muttered. He curled his legs in front of him, his knees splayed.

Dorian regarded him carefully, his eyes on him even in the dim starlight. “What was the dream?” he asked.

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t know. Demons? Red lyrium? Venatori? What difference does it make? It’s all the same in the end.” His own hands violently grasped his bedroll, every joint stiff and aching for relief. “More than ten years later, and they’re still torturing me.” The admission scraped his throat.

“You’re only a prisoner inside your own mind.”

“And I suppose you know something of it?”

Dorian’s smile was bitter and brittle, self-conscious, a confession unto itself. “I spent the better part of my youth a prisoner of my own birth. And when I dared to break free, I was captured—quite literally. My father’s last attempt to control me.” He tilted his head to Cullen. “So yes, I suppose I do know a thing or two of imprisonment,” he said bitterly.

An apology lingered on Cullen’s tongue, but even in his own head, it rang hollow. “When did you know?” he found himself asking instead.

Dorian’s jaw clicked. “Is that all you can think about? Is that all there is anymore when people look at me?”

Cullen shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “I only want to understand. Dorian, have you been listening to yourself? The only person obsessed with how or whether this changes you has been you.”

Dorian let that thought sink in for a quiet moment. “It runs in the family,” he said bitterly.

“Do you think it will be him?” Cullen asked, the question a constant between them. “It could be a lure.”

“And you would accompany me, even though you believe it to be a trap?”

“I’ve come with you this far.”

“Yes,” Dorian agreed, as though this continually surprised him. “Maker knows why.”

“Do you really not know?” Cullen asked, the words tender, cautious.

“I do not know what it is you stand to prove, Cullen.” Dorian sounded tired. “If you are expecting...I won’t be your _kept woman_.”

Cullen felt sick. “Is that really how you think I see you?”

“It’s how anyone’s seen me once it comes out.” He shook his head, his eyes downcast. “It’s all my father’s ever seen in me.”

“Dorian—”

“I’m not asking for your pity, Commander, or for your sympathy. I’m asking you to consider carefully what you think you feel—lest you find yourself wanting something you cannot have...something which does not exist.”

It all made sense to Dorian, he realized. That Cullen couldn’t want _him_ , couldn’t—have feelings for _Dorian_ , only for the lie of his birth. Cullen was too simple, a soldier, a Fereldan, a man.

“I’m a liar,” Dorian said, “and a trick.” He sounded exhausted, defeated.

Cullen had had enough. “The lie, Dorian, is what your father wants.” He’d tell him as many times as he needed to. He heard Dorian shift in the dark, his expression inscrutable in the dark. “The man who came to Ferelden chasing his freedom, intending to—to save the world? That’s you, Dorian.” Cullen took a steadying breath, as though it could stop the flare of protective urges that roared every time Dorian thought the worst of him.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t far off.

“Dorian, if your father can’t see the value, the _merit_ in his son…” He heaved a sigh. “You’re too good for him.”

Dorian was silent long enough that an apology bloomed in the back of Cullen’s throat—not for what he said, but for the fervor with which he said it. He wouldn’t apologize for the truth, but if he caused Dorian any more hurt, that, he would deeply regret.

“ _You’re_ too good for me,” he finally said, his voice thick.

Cullen almost laughed, sardonic humor souring the words. “Me? An addict? A disgrace to his vows? A—barbarian,” he said, repeating Dorian’s own word back at him. Had it been any wonder at all, he thought, that Dorian had expected so little from him? He reached for his water skin and pulled a long dragging swallow to chase down the shame.

It sounded like an apology when Dorian finally uttered, his voice hushed, “A good man.”

Cullen considered that. He had never considered himself a model, always too damaged, too unstable, too willing to follow in the footsteps of zealots. He stared at his hands before leaning back against his bedroll, fingers laced behind his head. “Look at us,” he said. “Two broken men.”

Dorian shifted again, and when Cullen turned to look at him, their eyes met in the dark. “Maybe not broken,” Dorian said, like he was trying the idea on. “Just...in repair.”

The words coaxed a smile from Cullen. “Is that optimism? Coming south has turned you soft.”

“I rather believe it’s the company,” Dorian said. “I’ve found it a...refreshing quality,” he said gently. His words would seem a flirtation if not for the level tone of his voice, an honesty Cullen hadn’t been privy to before. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with what he was being offered here.

“You should rest,” he whispered, afraid that any harsher sound would shatter the moment. “We still have a few hours’ ride to Redcliffe tomorrow—and I’m not thoroughly convinced we aren’t walking into a trap.”

“You’ve still not told me why you would take such a risk, traveling with me. I’ve known you to be many things, Cullen, but idiotic was never one.”

He felt a flush of excitement at the sound of his name in Dorian’s soft voice. Somehow, it made him brave. “I told you before—I’m here for _you_ , Dorian,” he confessed. “I wasn’t lying.”

Dorian’s breath hitched. “I suppose I knew that,” he admitted. “Only, I find it difficult to believe someone would—that _you_ would…” Dorian appeared to be at a loss for words. It was a rare thing, and unnerving.

“It...isn’t too late to turn back,” Cullen suggested, and he hoped Dorian knew he meant more than the possibility of them walking into a trap.

“No,” Dorian said, resolute. “It’s time to stop running.”

Oh, he hoped.

 

* * *

 

When a lone figure stood in the tavern at Redcliffe, Cullen was almost disappointed. He would never describe himself as particularly imaginative, but he had built up the culmination of their journey in his own mind so many times that reality was a pale shade beside it.

He shook his selfish thoughts from his mind as Dorian, gone slightly pale, took an anxiety-filled step toward the figure, surely his father.

“Oh, Claudia,” the stranger said, and Dorian flinched into anger.

“Don’t you _dare_ call me that,” Dorian hissed. “Not here. My name is Dorian—the least you could do is acknowledge that.”

“Your mother and I gave you so much,” said his father. “Including your name. I didn’t realize I’d raised a daughter so _selfish_ —”

Dorian swore, cutting the magister off with a string of Tevene that could be nothing else. “Your son,” he spat. “Damn it, I am your son.”

Halward silently regarded Dorian before the words drew between them, “You are no son of mine.”

Cullen’s sword was in his hand before he knew what he was doing.

“Cullen!” Dorian gasped, choked. Cullen couldn’t tell if it was shame or anger that strangled his voice in his throat, but the sound spurred him on either way.

“You will not speak to him that way,” he said, voice deathly quiet.

The Magister smirked, a sad little thing, half-drowned in callous egotism. It looked like a distant cousin of Dorian’s own curled lips, a learned trait rather than an inherited one. “You think you understand,” he said, the words nearly a taunt. “You don’t know the life she has thrown away, the opportunities I’ve—”

“Because it’s all about _your_ sacrifice, isn’t it?” Dorian snapped, his face flushed deep with rage. “What about the _slaves_ you sacrificed? Where was the integrity you so proudly cling to when you—you tried to—to _change_ me.” His voice broke, and Cullen’s quaking hands found purpose in deliberately sheathing his sword. He was no murderer—not like the man before him.

“I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you—surely you can see that.” He shook his head at tension drawing tighter as Dorian held himself civil. “Commander, perhaps—”

“No,” Cullen said. “If you won’t hear out your own son—if you would abandon the man he has become, then he truly owes you nothing. And I owe you even less.”

Magister Pavus looked between the two men, his gaze lancing. “I...see.” His lip curled. “Tell me, Commander, is it common for southerners to exact such vulgar payment for their protection, or is that an exchange left for mages and their so-called guardians?”

Dorian flushed with anger, spewing a hiss of obscenities before Cullen could realize what exactly his father meant by _vulgar payment_. “The Commander isn’t here because I _pay_ him, no matter how low your expectations of me have fallen.”

“If my expectations are low, it is because you have forced them to be.” He shook his head. “We have always expected far too much of you.”

Dorian’s breath spat from the back of his throat. “ _Nothing_ will be good enough, will it? Short of going through with it? Nothing will satisfy you, no matter the importance of my accomplishments. My research, my work with the Inquisition—”

“Reckless investigation into selfishly motivated magic? Allying yourself with religious fanatics? These are not—” He cut himself off with a tired sigh. “And nothing I try will change your mind,” he concluded quietly.

“Stalemate,” Dorian declared, despondent.

“No,” Cullen interrupted, his heart leaping. A flash of betrayal illuminated Dorian’s face in the candlelight, and Cullen raised his open palm to him as if to wave his fears away. “This is your _son_.”

“Cullen, please,” Dorian pleaded quietly, “he won’t hear you. He’s too preoccupied by the thought of us being _seen together_.” Louder, he added, “His small mind can’t conjure a scenario where I’m not sucking you off in exchange for your kind words.”

“His opinion means nothing to me, Dorian, but it means something to you.” It went unsaid, the implication that Dorian meant something to Cullen.

Dorian shook his head. “It may have, once. Turning blood magic on one’s own child appears to be a point of no-return,” he spat. “Come, _amatus_ ,” he said, the word unfamiliar, but pointed, as though it were a weapon. “I think it’s time we left.” Dorian crossed the room without another word. Cullen stood ready to defend him, should his father lash out once his back was turned.

“I knew you were too stubborn to listen. I’m afraid leaving won’t be as simple as you expect.”

The hair stood up on the back of Cullen’s neck, and he had just enough time to raise his shield to block the blast of ice the Magister sent at him. It barely glanced, a warning shot.

Dorian swore. In a flurry of movement, he had Cullen sheltered behind a table. “How much would you wager there’s a band of Venatori on the other side of that door?”

“I’m not a betting man,” Cullen argued, “but I believe I did say something about a trap?”

 

* * *

 

“This is a new low,” Dorian called out. His father was never politically radical; had anyone suggested to him the possibility of Venatori ties, he would have dismissed the accusation outright. It appeared, however, that desperation had forged his character in ways Dorian could no longer predict.  “And you accused me of fanaticism?” As an agent’s blast of fire spat against the wall, just feet from his head, he considered the familiar stranger across the room from him. ”You would just as soon have me killed as betray your design? I didn’t realize you’d begun to set your faith in no-win scenarios.”

“I have been assured they are under orders to keep you alive.”

“If slightly singed,” Dorian muttered.

“There must be a back door,” Cullen said.

Dorian shook his head. “Behind my father; we’d never get past him.”

The entire building shook suddenly with the force of the next attack. Bottles fell from the bar, smashing to the floor in a pungent shower of glass and alcohol, red wine staining the floorboards.

“The wine cellar,” Dorian said, inspired. “There’s an exit through the wine cellar, just under the bar. If you can escape, fight your way through, we can—”

“I won’t leave you behind.”

“Perish the thought. I’ll keep them distracted in here and meet up with you outside.”

“And if there’s an entire army of Venatori out that door?”

“Cullen, I thought you’d know better than to underestimate how distracting I can be.”

“Dorian—”

Every second Cullen hesitated, another hypothetical Venatori agent fell into position. “You foolish, soft-hearted man,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Cullen’s for the expanse of a single heartbeat, “just go. For once, let _me_ cover _you_.”

Something flickered in Cullen’s gaze before it was overtaken by the resolve he brought to battle. Dorian’s barrier followed him as he crossed the spell-strewn floor, his shield held close in front.

“I didn’t realize,” Dorian shouted, “that Magister Halward would lower himself to allying with cultists.”

“The Venatori have access to powers far beyond my ability.”

Dorian went cold. _Corypheus_. Realization came to him as a blow. The trouble with the truth was how often it hurt. “Blood magic’s not enough for you?”

His father stepped forward, holding up his hand in signal to the battlemages. They held their staves at the ready, but their spells flickered dimly. That was it; Cullen was gone, and Dorian was given a chance, he realized, to say his piece.

“The lengths you’ve gone to, to come after me…” Dorian felt his heart harden with resolve, despair and disappointment closed off, leaving only a void of feeling. “You say you have no son and I declare the divorce complete. You are absolved of your shame for having someone like me for a child,” he declared. “Just as I may be, for having you as a father.”

Placidly, nothing betraying the callous beat of his rapid heart, Dorian stood and, holding himself as regal as he ever had, he took even strides to the front door of the tavern.

“They won’t let you leave Redcliffe alive,” the magister lamented.

“Either they die, or I die,” Dorian stated. “You’ve made it apparent which outcome you would prefer.” He left only silence behind him as he shouldered the door, his staff in hand.

A number of bodies lay strewn on the ground in front of the tavern, bloodied, beaten in every sense of the word. The carnage sank fear in his heart. He scanned the area, first for attackers, but again for the now-familiar slump of soldier’s armor. Cullen lay propped against the rock wall, breath heaving and covered in blood.

Dorian’s breath caught. He skidded to his knees in front of the other man, drenched with fear.

“It’s not mine,” Cullen panted. “Dorian, it’s fine, it’s not mine.”

Dorian’s hands trembled as he pushed at Cullen’s armor, tugged at his coat, searching for a wound.

Cullen covered his hands with one of his own. “I’m just—exhausted.”

Dorian forced a smile. “All right, old man?”

“Younger than you,” Cullen retorted. “When was the last time _you_ took on a full band of Venatori alone?”

“Well, today’s Wednesday, so—”

“Ass.”

Dorian considered the sheen of sweat that coated Cullen’s face, the wheeze of his breath, the pallor of his face. “It’s the withdrawal, isn’t it?”

The soldier groaned, a pained sound, dragging disappointment. “I’m not—my abilities aren’t what they once were,” he said, disgust heavy in his throat. “I couldn’t even—I silenced one mage, and in the effort, nearly collapsed.” He offered no apology, but Dorian recognized the helpless surrender in his voice. “I brought—I don’t know what compelled me—it’s just enough for, for an edge,” Cullen admitted, pained temptation straining his expression.

Dorian watched him with wide, discerning eyes. “Lyrium.”

“I have come this far,” he said, “but…”

Cullen’s expression hardened, as though he’d discovered a store of determination within him. “No—I will not compromise that progress for one opportunity in battle.” It sounded as though he was talking himself into it—or perhaps out of it. Worse yet, it sounded like a speech he had given many times already.

Dorian didn’t know what was worse: to see Cullen so at war with himself, or the possibility that it was a war he could not win.

“You would rather see yourself killed? To risk—” Dorian swallowed the rest of his words. He would not use Cullen’s feelings for him, whatever they may be, to his own advantage. “Fine,” he bit. “If you’re putting your life on the line, then it might as well be both of us who bear the consequences. I don’t know how many Venatori agents lie between us and the road,” he admitted, “but I know their orders.”

He explained to Cullen his father’s objective: Dorian once more in his possession, the knowing likelihood of their surrender.

“I won’t let them have you,” Cullen declared. An unspoken ultimatum balanced between them.

“Let’s see that it doesn’t come to that, yes?” Cullen nodded in agreement. “Good,” Dorian declared. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Cullen said, choking off a groan of pain. “Cover me.”

Before Dorian could react, Cullen rushed out onto the rocky path with a soldier’s charge. He dodged the enemy’s spells, and Dorian focused on striking hard from the distance, well-aimed bursts that kept heads down.

He raised the corpses of his fallen victims, distraction enough to give Cullen an edge. The tide was turning in their favor when his magic suddenly flickered out, the corpses falling limp to the ground as a searing pain sliced into Dorian’s side. Dorian’s name cried from Cullen’s lips, and Dorian turned in time to lock eyes with the assassin at his side before he fell to his knees.

Time seemed to slow down, cease, and restart again with alarming inconsistency. The dagger drew out in an agonizing stretch of hours, but Cullen was at his side in a blink of the eye, the assassin on the ground with Cullen’s sword pierced through his chest, pinning the body in the dirt.

Cullen’s hands were covered in blood, and so were Dorian’s. It took him a long time to realize it was his own. Cullen was saying words, but none of them made sense, slow and foggy. They all came together on the sound of Dorian’s name, as though everything sped up, coming at him at once. _Can you hear me_ and _Dorian, please_ and _I’m sorry_.

“H-hardly your fault,” Dorian choked. It hurt to move, but he was still breathing. That had to be good.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Cullen said, the words a rush. “Can you heal it?”

Dorian summoned a sardonic expression. “You really think the— _necromancer_ moonlights as a healer?”

A helpless expression clouded Cullen’s face, and guilt gnawed at Dorian’s insides.

“They’re not the same study,” Dorian said, an apology in a league of its own. “If I try, I might—I’ve seen terrible things from untrained mages who choose to _practice_ on the human body.”

“We have potions,” Cullen said, taking stock, “but you’ll need a healer with a wound like that.”

“I know,” Dorian said, an absolution. He could feel the ache coming back to him, as though remembering it was there was enough for his mind to realize he should be in pain.

“It’s nearly a day’s ride back to Skyhold.”

Quieter, Dorian said, “I know.”

“They’re still out there. The remaining Venatori made for the road.”

“An ambush?”

“It’s likely.” Preoccupied, Cullen turned a small object over in his hand. Dorian didn’t need to see it to know what it was.

“No,” Dorian said. “Don’t do this, not for me.”

“I’m only one man,” Cullen said. “But with lyrium, I could be one _templar_.” He swallowed thickly. “The advantage—it may be the only way I can get you out.

“Another wave,” Cullen explained before rising with his sword and rushing out. It would have been all very dashing and heroic, if it weren’t for the pain and the blood and the dramatically overbearing moral dilemma.

Did he have any right to ask Cullen to take lyrium—for him? Did he even have the right to deny him the option? Cullen slid back behind the cover of the stone wall, breathless and sweaty. “In another context, I might find this an appealing look on you,” Dorian said with a loopy giggle. Cullen frowned at him. “You know, this makes for a fascinating moral quandary,” he admitted, “all this should I and all that. Were I not bleeding so much, I might entertain debate.”

“You’re in shock,” Cullen said, a crease deepening between his eyes. He wiped at Dorian’s forehead, damp with sweat. It felt undeniably good. Dorian leaned into it, quelling his disappointment when Cullen pulled away.

He was so selfish already. “I suppose I am in shock,” he said. “I’m not sure it changes anything.”

“Tell me, Dorian, when was the last time anyone put your needs first.”

“Besides yourself, apparently?” he asked lightly, remembering Cullen’s promise, his admission.

Trick question.

“Alexius,” he said finally. “When he took me in. It was the last thing he needed to do. Any other man would have taken advantage, but he…” Dorian shook his head slowly, his entire body throbbing with the motion. “He was once a better man.”

“Losing his son turned him desperate,” Cullen summarized.

Dorian stared at him, a sober realization on the heels of Cullen’s words. “Desperation is something Tevinters do very well, it would seem.”

“Yet here you are, telling me no to what could be your best chance at survival.”

“Selfishness is the mark of the worst of us, Cullen.” Dorian grunted in pain as he shifted defiantly. “I mean to be better.”

Cullen cupped Dorian’s cheek at the admission, rough palm against his smooth jaw. If Cullen could just keep touching him forever, he thought, that would be cause enough to fight.

Cullen chuckled, a soft choked sound, and Dorian considered that his sense of reality was, perhaps, somewhat fluid at the moment, his thoughts spoken aloud.

“I owe you an apology,” Dorian realized. “I haven’t given you the...benefit of the doubt, lately.”

Cullen’s frown pulled tight. “I think I understand,” he said, a note of sadness in his voice—not pity; Dorian knew the difference now. This was the dark twist of rejection.

Cullen’s head jerked up suddenly, his expression suddenly intense. “More Venatori.”

Dorian gritted his teeth through the pain to twist and watch Cullen, feeling incredibly useless as he failed to cast even a barrier to protect the man.

Cullen was an unstoppable force, showing no sign of weakness, no hesitation as he fought. Venatori fell at the thrust of his sword, staggered at the force of his shield.

He still left himself open on his left side.

Dorian didn’t think, he acted on instinct, summoned up what mana he could, blasting a wave of fire at the assassin.

Cullen spun in shock, sword raised, but anything more was unnecessary. Dorian had finished the agent off in one solid blow. Dorian collapsed against the wall, time passing again in that odd fashion that left him in the dark, his mana depleted.

Cullen was again beside him, muttering in barely concealed panic, “Oh, you stubborn—of all the careless…”

“S’ved y’r life.”

“Dorian.” Cullen’s breath punched out of him like a drowning man’s gasp for air. “We need to move,” he said stiffly, as though the objective could push aside his anxiety. Considering it was Cullen, it probably could. “I need you to stay alive,” he said, like it was an order, “if not for yourself, then for me.”

“D’know if I’ve got ‘nough left,” Dorian admitted quietly, feeling little else but the cold—why was it always the cold?

Cullen’s tightly controlled expression flickered into unguarded emotion for a second, the sight reaching into Dorian’s chest and taking hold of his heart. “I will not lose you before I’ve even had the chance to—” He pressed his open palm to Dorian’s chest, where his mage’s armor pressed him flat and firm. Cullen’s touch was gentle, meant to reaffirm the promise of Dorian’s beating heart. “I don’t have anyone to talk to,” Cullen said quietly. “Not like this. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt for anyone what I feel for you.”

Labored breath filled the space between words, and Dorian’s throat constricted around his own, the sound thick and raw. “Brill’nt time t’realize it,” he slurred brokenly. Words were an awful lot of effort. “S’pose s’only fair ‘f I—”

“No,” Cullen said, cutting him off. “If you care for me at all, you won’t. Not now. Not because you believe you’ll die.”

“Then g’me a chance,” he said softly, before time slipped from him again. He awoke once to the jarring lance of pain as Cullen gathered him over his shoulder. All else was darkness.

 

* * *

 

Cullen was shaken awake from a gritty dreamless sleep—the kind that left him more tired than he’d started, born out of raw exhaustion that sank down into his bones. It took him longer than it should have to recognize the Inquisitor, Adaar standing over him with sharp eyes. He wasn’t in his quarters; he’d fallen asleep in the infirmary tent, slumped beside Dorian’s cot.

_Dorian_.

But that wasn’t where he was, either, the light too wrong, the air too comfortable. He sat up, a cot of his own creaking beneath him. “What is it?” he asked, watching Adaar’s grave expression. His pulse spiked. “Dorian?”

“He’s waking up,” Adaar said softly. “He asked for you.”

“Where?”

“Two tents over,” the Inquisitor said, helping lift Cullen to his feet. “I’m told you were in the surgeon’s way,” Adaar remarked with small amusement.

“Why was she—”

“It’s apparently very difficult to change someone’s dressing when they’ve got an Inquisition Commander draped over them.”

Cullen felt himself flush as they left the tent, squinting in the daylight. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Adaar chuckled. “It’s comforting, really, to know you do have a limit. Even if that appears to be four consecutive days.” He held the tent flap for Cullen.

Cullen’s feet were frozen in sudden trepidation, a stack of _what ifs_ he’d spent the last four days pretending didn’t exist suddenly upon him. That it had been Dorian who had asked for him spurred him on, one gentle step after the other.

The surgeon hovered over the mage, Dorian just barely awake, but even his minute movements were a relief.

“How is he?” Adaar asked before Cullen could manage to form the words.

“He won’t be leaving Skyhold for a few weeks, but he’ll pull through.” The surgeon frowned. “I was more worried about his mana depletion than I was about the wound. It was a lot of blood you lost,” she told Dorian, “but you were even more stupid, casting spells when you were in such a state.”

“Just _one_ spell,” Cullen said. Dorian’s eyes snapped open, finding Cullen’s in an instant. “But it saved my life,” he added knowingly. To Dorian, he added, “I’m only glad I could repay the favor.”

Dorian searched Cullen for some unknown quality, his gaze suddenly intense. Cullen broke contact before he could determine whether or not Dorian had found it.

“Let’s put all that determination into _rest_ and _healing_ ,” Adaar said, reaching down to pat Dorian’s ankle. “I need you on my team again.”

“Something tells me you’ll do just fine crawling into the furthest corners of Thedas without me.” He paused. “For a time, anyway.”

“It’s more fun with you there to complain. I’ll save some snow for you.”

Dorian groaned with an eye roll. It was the most lively he’d been since before their journey to Redcliffe. It was a sight Cullen was intent on appreciating.

The Inquisitor left, followed by the fussing surgeon, tutting at him about supplies. Cullen glanced after, drained of all but his worry for Dorian.

“Is this where you inform me that deathbed confessions are falling terribly out of vogue?”

Cullen’s warm regard slipped into a cold and serious silence. “I suppose we have much to discuss.”

“Just tell me you didn’t,” Dorian pleaded.

“Didn’t what?” Cullen asked, like Dorian could have meant anything at all.

“The lyrium.”

Cullen looked down at his steady hands. No matter his answer, the truth was terrible. He’d been damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. He couldn’t read in his words what Dorian wanted to hear, couldn’t quite figure him out. Did he want to hear that Cullen fought his own internal battles, risking Dorian’s life? Was he looking for the romantic sacrifice of his personal integrity for Dorian’s sake?

“It was down to getting us out of there, or die trying,” he admitted. Too raw was the ache of panicked regret and hopeless determination. Dorian had collapsed in his arms, his body limp as he’d manhandled him onto the horse.

A guilty wheeze escaped Dorian’s throat.

Cullen couldn’t stand it. The air between them was toxic with everything held back on both sides. He needed Dorian to be honest with him, and the first step, he realized at last, was to afford him the same respect. “We are both alive. Even so, I can’t say for certain that I made the right call,” Cullen said. “I—”

“Well,” Dorian interrupted, “if we’re going to start down the path of the _ends justifying the means_ —”

“Don’t,” Cullen bit. He knew where that path led. Demons and lyrium, Tranquility and Annulment. Even as incapacitated as he was, Dorian went in for the kill.

“You started this, Commander.”

Cullen couldn’t breathe for a moment, hearing every layer of meaning Dorian imbued into his objection. “Dorian, please.”

He waited; Dorian said nothing.

“You’re _alive_ ,” he said, maybe the most important part. “I’m...fine.”

Fine meant exhaustion and restlessness. Fine meant withdrawal and nightmares, days and nights spent so sick to his stomach he had nothing left to give. Fine meant an ongoing torture that constantly reminded Cullen that he was still beholden to the templars.

“You’re driving yourself to an early grave. Cullen, this lyrium will kill you.”

Cullen pulled back, confused. _The lyrium_? “I—you think...Dorian, I’m not talking about—I didn’t take the lyrium.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen moved toward Dorian, pausing at the end of his cot. Dorian stuck his feet out the side of the blankets, the effort more draining than he was willing to admit, but cool air felt just as good on his overheated skin as Cullen’s closeness did.

“If you didn’t take the lyrium, then why—”

Cullen shrugged with his entire body. “Because I don’t know what you want from me, Dorian.”

Dorian blinked slowly. “I don’t fully understand it, myself,” he confessed quietly. “I’ve always wanted things I’m not allowed to have.”

“I’m not one of them. You’re allowed _this_.”

His breath caught in his throat. It was too much to ask, too good to be true and other cliches. Dorian had always thought happiness unattainable. He had already thrown it back in Cullen’s face at every turn; he didn’t deserve the kindness, the second chance he was being given. How could he say no?

Unless…

“I’m afraid I won’t be in any physical condition for anything like that,” Dorian said, testing the waters. “At least, not for a while.” He pressed a hand to the bandage at his side in apparent apology.

Cullen’s face clouded with confusion. “That’s not what I want,” he said, then seemed to think better of it. “That’s not all I want. I mean, I certainly...that is you’re not...oh, Maker, you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Dorian said softly. He’d never heard someone so tongue-tied over him. He’d been told salacious, scandalous things, he’d been threatened, he’d been treated like some prized thing, unworthy of respect and agency. This— _Cullen_ was different from all that. It occurred to Dorian that he’d already known that.

“Dorian, if—if you give me a chance, I won’t throw it aside after one... _romp through the sheets_ ,” he said cheeks burning. “I want to do right by you, Dorian.”

Dorian forced a cough to cover the embarrassing catch in his throat. His heart pounded with something foreign and thrilling. It felt like the steady thrum of honesty.

“You saw what my father’s like,” Dorian offered in apology. “He tried just about everything. Teachers and healers and—well, before the Venatori, there was blood magic, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised.” He swallowed, mortified at the tears creeping into his voice. “It’s all well and good that I like men, but to want to _be_ one, as well? He found it humiliating.

“I refused to play his games. No courtships. No betrothals. No progeny to bear the Pavus heritage to its rightful place as Archon—or _something_.”

Cullen shook his head. “Whatever life he had planned for you, that life was meant for a different person.”

“I am aware,” Dorian said grimly. “I’ve never held myself up to his expectations.” He shouldered past the ache in his chest. “But he always has. When I proved myself yet another failure, he had me—retrieved. Our slaves were commanded to ensure I wouldn’t run off again and shame the family name.

“My point, Cullen, is this: there is no _right by me_ , there is only what I know, and...well, in truth, anything beyond that frightens me to death.” He couldn’t keep the quaver out of his voice.

“You know,” Cullen said thickly, “that stunt with the fireball nearly killed you.”

He nodded. “I’d do it again,” he said, with conviction.

“Dorian, just because I didn’t take—if it came down to it—”

Dorian shook his head, denying the alternative on Cullen’s lips. “I imagine your integrity is more attractive than your willingness to sacrifice.”

Cullen laughed, a wince hidden in it.

“Selflessness is a terrible look on me, I admit,” Dorian said wryly, an admission buried under his words. After a lifetime of hearing how selfish he was, Dorian wasn’t very good at acting selflessly.

“I find it endearing,” Cullen teased. “Like a gap tooth.”

Dorian gaped, a laugh startled out of him. It pulled sharply at the wound at his side, leaving him gasping at the pain. “Please, Commander, save your insults for after my recovery.”

“Of course. My sincerest apologies,” he said, not sounding all that sorry behind his grin.

Cullen stared down at his hands for some time, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t want to leave this up to chance. I’ve lost opportunities before. You’re worth more than that.”

Dorian felt the weight of emotion behind Cullen’s words like a physical blow. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of your compliments, your...reassurances,” he corrected himself. “Idle flattery, I know fluently. Apart from Felix, no one’s...I’ve never…”

“You don’t have to tell me everything, Dorian,” Cullen said. “Not right away.”

“Good,” Dorian admitted stiffly. “I’m...not sure I could, even if I wanted to. Too much...memory.” His heart clenched with fear every time they danced around the subject, not because of Cullen, but because of everything that thrummed in Dorian’s heart after nearly two decades of expectation.

“That makes two of us.” Tentative, Cullen reached for Dorian’s hand. He didn’t take his hand; it wasn’t a show of dominance, a claim. “But I’m willing to try.” It was an offering.

And Dorian reached back.

 


End file.
